“Owen—”
“I heard him this morning.” My voice stayed level. “Through the window. He said I was hovering. That I was confusing you.”
Something like shame crossed her face. Her chin dropped.
“You didn’t say anything,” I said quietly. “He reduced sixteen years to hovering. Made me sound like some kind of stray dog who wouldn’t leave. And you just stood there.”
“I didn’t know what to say,” she whispered. “He was right there, and I couldn’t find the words?—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
And somehow, it didn’t. What mattered was what came next.
“I’m not angry,” I said. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I just need you to understand why I can’t stay.”
“You’re leaving?” Her voice broke. The color drained from her face, and for a moment she looked like she had the night Marcus first left—lost, hollowed out.
“I’m stepping back.” I held her gaze. “From the carriage house. The Saturday breakfasts. Being here whenever you need something fixed or held together or made to feel less alone.”
Her shoulders shook, silent sobs tearing through her.
“And if you want me,” I said, “really want me—not because I’m convenient. Not because I’m useful. Not because I’ve been here so long you can’t imagine what it would look like if I wasn’t?—”
I stepped forward. One step. Stopped.
“I’m not asking you to decide right now,” I said. “I’m not asking you to decide anything. But you need to know where I stand. I love you, Grace. I’ve probably loved you longer than I realized.”
I waited.
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
Nothing.
“I’ll be at the station,” I said. “When you’re ready. If you’re ready. And if you’re not—” My throat tightened. “That’s okay too. I won’t disappear from your life. I’ll still be here if you need me. I just can’t keep living in the in-between.”
One more breath.
Her eyes met mine. Full of something I couldn’t name.
But she didn’t speak.
I turned and walked out of the kitchen.
The screen door creaked as I pushed it open. My truck sat in the driveway, waiting to take me somewhere else. Anywhere else.
The door didn’t open behind me. No footsteps. No voice calling my name.
I didn’t look back. If I did, I’d lose whatever nerve I had left.
I got in the truck. Started the engine. Sat there for a long moment, hands on the wheel, staring at the house where I’d spent sixteen years showing up and hoping for something I’d never let myself ask for.
Then I backed out of the driveway and drove away.
The carriage house didn’t take long to pack.
I’d never fully unpacked. Some part of me had always known this was temporary.
I worked methodically—clothes first, then books, then the odds and ends that had accumulated. The coffee mug Grace had given me last Christmas, the one with the firehouse logo. The extra blanket she’d brought over when the nights got cold. Small things. Evidence of a life I’d built in her orbit.
